The warm breeze is ribboned with cold threads that, far from causing discomfort, only heighten the sweetness. We lay on the "navajo" blanket (purchased somewhere in Texas, years ago; hecho, says the label, somewhere en Mexico) in the dappled shade of a tree on the lawn in Prospect Park, staring at the bluest sky, watching the clouds above dissolve and reform and dissolve again, for hours.
I point out one cloud that "looks like a tiger, but it's changing into a coyote."
"That one used to look like a teddy bear," Katie says of another, "but now it looks like a decapitated teddy bear."
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